Remembrance
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: Sequel to Returns. Time travel has haunted Altair since he was a child, but with Juno gone, he'd thought all that was over. It's not, and the times ahead will not be easy ones. When Desmond arrives suddenly in Masyaf as a child, his memories gone, Altair's life is turned upside down yet again.
1. Chapter 1

**I highly recommend reading both Relations and Returns before this.**

**-/-**

January 1, 1200

-/-

"Do you feel any different today?" Maria asks from the other side of their shared bed.

"I feel that it's too early to be awake," Altair mumbles, and opens his eyes in time to watch his wife scowl at him.

"If you wouldn't stay up half the night with that apple-"

Altair holds up his hands defensively. "I didn't touch the apple at all last night," he says, which is true. "I was with Sef." Their younger son has been sick for almost a week, so Altair had been up half the night while Sef threw up everything in his stomach. "Why did you ask if I felt different?"

"Well, it's a big day," Maria says. "We're living in the thirteenth century. Happy New Year."

Altair smiles as Maria turns away from him and goes to check on Sef. The thirteenth century might seem a lot more impressive if he hadn't spent over a year of his childhood in the twenty first. He's still smiling when Maria comes back into the room. "What are you so happy about?" she asks.

"Just thinking," Altair says. One of these days, he will tell Maria everything he saw there, in the future, but he hasn't yet thought of a way to explain it all without sounding completely insane.

Darim comes running into the room then, vibrating with all the excitement a four year old can manage. Altair barely manages to catch him when the boy throws himself into his arms. "Dad! Who is he, dad?"

Altair exchanges a worried glance with Maria. "Who?" he asks.

"The baby," Darim says, in a why-don't-you-already-know-that-dad tone. "There's a baby in-" He cuts off abruptly and glances at Altair's study, a room that he knows he's not allowed in. That's never stopped him before, of course- mostly it just seems to encourage him. One of Altair's greatest fears is that some day one of his sons will stumble over the apple in there, and something horrible will happen. Wordlessly, he hands Darim to Maria and goes to investigate.

The apple is glowing faintly when Altair steps into the room, which puts him on alert right away. Normally, the cursed thing only does that when it's being used. Maybe someone else has somehow gotten in, or maybe the apple is just doing something new and now. Either way, Altair has enough sense to be on his guard going in.

Darim had said there was a baby, so Altair pulls his eyes away from the apple to search the room. Sure enough, it doesn't take long to find the child on the floor, only a few feet away from the apple. It's a boy, dark haired and pale, close to Sef's age or a little younger. The kid is sitting up with his back to Altair, and he doesn't react at all when Altair crosses the room to stand next to him. His eyes don't even move, just stare blankly at the wall. Shock, maybe, or some spell of the apple.

The boy's completely naked, and Altair runs his eyes over the body, checking for injuries or some other sign of what had happened to bring him here. It definitely looks like the kid has been pretty beat up, and Altair feels a brief flare of anger towards whoever would do that to a kid- there's an angry red burn running the length of his right arm, fading to pink and then to normal skin color as it comes close to his shoulder, and there are a dozen small cuts and bruises covering the rest of his body, along with several scars. The most prominent is a vertical slash across his lip, a lot like the one on Altair's face, or-

It all clicks together then, the answer coming to Altair along with a fresh surge of horror.

"Oh no," he whispers. "Desmond."

Now that he knows what he's looking for, the signs are all there, waiting to be recognized. The familiar tattoo, the shape of his face, distorted by youth but still undeniably _him_. This is Desmond, and Altair had been the one to bring him here. Years and years ago- he'd stood in a cave in New York with the apple in his hand, begging for a way to save Desmond from an impossible choice, between his own death and the deaths of millions of people.

This hadn't been the way out he'd imagined.

"Altair?" He turns to see Maria standing in the doorway, arms crossed. "Why is there an infant in your study?"

"It's... complicated," Altair says, already turning his eyes back to Desmond, who still hasn't moved. "Will you get me a blanket, please?"

Maria doesn't answer, but he hears footsteps walking away, and a few moments later return. She stands at his side, holding the soft yellow blanket that usually lies at the foot of Darim's bed. "You know him," she says. "Who is he?"

"His name's Desmond," Altair says quietly, watching to see if the boy will react at all to his name; he doesn't even blink. "Desmond Miles."

"An English name," Maria says thoughtfully. "Where do you know him from?"

"A gift of the apple," Altair says. It's oversimplifying the matter hugely, but he doesn't have time for complicated explanations now.

"You spend too much time with that thing," Maria says, but it's a tired protest, one made more out of habit than anything else. "Why did it show you him, of all the people in the world?"

"He's from the future," Altair explains as he wraps Desmond in the blanket and gathers him into his arms. "He's… important." To the world. And to Altair.

Maria reaches out and runs a hand across Desmond's face. "He's freezing," she says. "Bring him into the other room and we'll try to warm him up."

Over the next few hours, as Desmond slowly warms, Altair is relieved to see him start to come alive. He blinks, moves his limbs, follows the people around him with his eyes. But there's no recognition in his eyes, and he doesn't make a single sound.

His still silence terrifies Altair. He knows all too well the traumas Desmond has seen. Kidnapping, the animus, death and the end of the world- even before the apple brought him to Masyaf, it would have been enough to break the strongest of men. It's broken Desmond, apparently, and all Altair wants is to know how badly. Is he shattered, or only cracked? He wants to know, he wants to help him, but he has no idea what to do.

Toward late afternoon, Altair is called away for business that he can't avoid. He's gone barely half an hour, but when he comes back, it's to the sight of Maria standing in the doorway to the boys' room, smiling gently at whatever is going on inside.

She motions him over when he comes in, signaling for quiet at the same time. Slightly confused, Altair joins her.

Darim has crawled into bed with Sef, Desmond wedged securely between the brothers. He's asleep, but Darim and Sef are very much awake, and apparently in the midst of an important conversation. "You have to be careful," Darim is telling Sef, his voice as serious as Altair has ever heard it. "Because when you have a little brother, it's your job to protect him."

"From what?" Sef asks. He sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He looks better than the night before, even if his voice still sounds stuffed and his whole face is red.

"Everything," Darim says solemnly.

"Remember this?" Maria whispers to Altair, and he smiles over at her. Three years ago, he'd given Darim pretty much the same talk, just before Sef was born.

"Of course I do," he says. Maria takes his hand and twines her fingers through his.

"Especially girls," Darim goes on. "Girls are scary."

"I did not tell him that," Altair adds hastily, and Maria smacks him on the arm.

"Why not?" she asks. "We _are _scary." Her smile fades as she goes back to contemplating the three boys on the bed. "What are we supposed to do with him, Altair?"

"Keep him with us," Altair says, without even a second's hesitation. Desmond had taken care of him when he'd needed it most- twice, as a matter of fact. There's no way Altair can abandon him now.

"Alright," Maria nods. Her eyes stay fixed on her sons. "The boys would be upset if we were to send him away."

Altair grunts in agreement, and Maria turns away to take care of something in the other room. For a long time after, he just stands in the doorway watching as Darim and Sef talk quietly on the bed, Desmond curled up between them. There are a lot of decisions left to be made, and a lot of questions that are still unanswered.

Right now, Altair has no idea at all what Desmond's mental state is. He still hasn't spoken, and has barely reacted to anything around him. It could be disorientation from the apple travel, or it could be… something worse.

And if so, it's Altair's fault.

-/-

January 2, 1200

-/-

"There's a lot of old injuries here. Extensive scarring, bad burns on one arm, very strange decorations on the other arm. The burn is the most recent injury, but there are some others that are yet to heal, as well. Minor cuts and bruises, mostly. Obviously hasn't been sleeping well, either." The man looks up from his examination of Desmond to frown at Altair. "You did the right thing, bringing him here."

"You're the doctor," Altair says. The best of the medics living in Masyaf, which is why Altair brought Desmond there in the first place. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

"Hard to say…" the main trails off, his eyes focusing on Desmond again, who sits passively on the chair where he's been placed. "There's a lot to be worried about here. Physically, I'd say the burn is the biggest worry. The other injuries should heal quickly, and a few good nights' sleep will take care of the exhaustion. But this burn- it's interesting. It's extremely bad on the fingers and palm, but gets gradually less intense farther up the arm." He grips Desmond near the shoulder. "Up here, it's no worse than a sunburn."

When he lets go of Desmond's arm, it swings limply back into place. "So will it heal?" Altair asks.

"Yes. Maybe. Some of it."

"Not a very precise answer there," Altair says.

"I have no idea," the doctor says. "I've never seen any injury like this before. How did he sustain it?"

"I have no idea," Altair lies. He has no idea what happened to Desmond in the temple, so explaining it would hardly be any help.

"Hmm." The doctor frowns. "Other than the physical symptoms, there's also unresponsiveness, listlessness, slow eye movements- he's young, and the young heal well, so it may go away on its own in time. Or it may not- I just don't know enough about injuries of the spirit to say for sure. But as I said, the boy is young."

"Yes," Altair says. "About that- how old do you think he is?"

"Probably… two years, maybe two and a half," the doctor says. "I can't be more specific."

"Thank you," Altair says, and picks Desmond up from the table. "You've been a help."

"Of course, mentor," the doctor says. "If you have any further concerns, feel free to come back."

Altair nods before leaving the room. The man hadn't really told him anything Altair didn't know- Desmond still has the injuries he picked up during his time as an assassin in the twenty first century, his arm is badly burned from whatever happened in the temple, and his mental state is still a mystery.

"Wait!" Altair glances over his shoulder as the doctor comes running out after him, and even Desmond reacts enough to turn his head to look at the man. "Sorry," the doctor said. "It's just- I did notice something else, during my examination." He takes a deep breath, then goes on. "Some of the scars on that boy are older than he is. They've reached a level of healing that would take much longer than two years."

Altair gives the man a long, measured look. "I know," he says. "But don't mention it to anyone else."

The doctor pales slightly, then nods, leaving Altair free to walk away with Desmond. He hesitates, then nods to himself. "Come on," he says to Desmond, although there's no indication that Desmond is actually listening, or that he cares. "I'm going to show you something."

No one stops them as Altair climbs with Desmond up one of Masyaf's towers. There are certain advantages to being mentor, after all. Instead of climbing all the way to the top, Altair stops about two thirds of the way up, settling himself on the ledge there with Desmond held securely at his side. It would have been easy to climb all the way to the top, but when Altair was very small, this was as high up as he could get. In fact, this is the exact spot where Altair had been sitting when he first fell through time, just before meeting Desmond.

He'd come up here planning to explain all this to Desmond, but the words don't come. Instead, they sit in absolute silence for close to an hour. Altair watches Desmond, who stares with empty eyes straight in front of him. It's unbelievably painful for Altair to watch- he hasn't seen Desmond in almost a decade, and in his memories, Desmond had always been the older one, the one that was responsible. He'd done his absolute best to take care of Altair when he was young, even when he was losing his mind piece by piece… even when Altair was as well.

He shakes his head and forces the memories away- even now, years later, he can still see the lingering hallucinations from his own brief time in the animus. It's worse when he thinks about it, so he tries not to. Even Maria doesn't know about the visions, although to be fair she doesn't know anything about that part of his life.

Desmond does. Or did. It's hard to tell what's left in his mind these days. "It's my turn now, isn't it?" Altair says quietly. "My turn to take care of you. Desmond doesn't answer, unsurprisingly, and Altair holds him tighter. "And I will. I promise."

Neither of them says anything else, but when Altair climbs back down from the tower, Desmond wraps his arms around Altair's neck and squeezes tight. He doesn't let go for a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

July 18, 1202

Two years later

-/-

Darim sits against the stone wall of the keep, halfway between the open space where a group of novices are sparring with wooden practice swords and the shaded corner where his brothers are chasing each other around a tree stump. He's much more interested in what the novices are doing. In another year or so he'll be old enough to join them himself, but until then his main responsibility is watching out for his brothers, so he turns reluctantly back to them.

Sef is slightly older and a little bit bigger than Desmond, but Desmond is light on his feet and hard to catch. Every time Sef gets close, Desmond squirms away and manages to avoid his reaching fingers. Mostly they're just running around, but occasionally one of them will manage to jump the other and get them to the ground before they can wiggle away.

A couple of Darim's friends walk past, calling for him to come with them, and for a second he's tempted. Then he shakes his head and lets them pass him by. So far today has been a good day, but if Darim leaves and Desmond has one of his fits, Darim will be the one that gets in trouble for it.

Sef tackles Desmond and they go tumbling to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Sef laughs loudly, but Desmond only smiles broadly. Darim's never heard Desmond make a noise louder than a sneeze, not once in the two and a half years since he's come to stay with them. Even on good days like today, he either can't or won't make a sound.

On bad days… well, on days like that, Desmond seems just as sick as he was during his first few months in Masyaf. One second he'll be fine, and the next he'll stop wherever he is, whatever he's doing. He'll stay like that for hours, just staring into empty space with dead eyes. It scares Darim, more than he'd ever admit, because he'd been there when Desmond first came to Masyaf, and he knows there's something... wrong with his youngest brother.

Darim had been five, and very good at getting into places he wasn't supposed to. On that particular day, the place he wasn't supposed to be was his dad's study. Now that he's older (at seven years old and with two little brothers to look after, Darim feels very grown up), he knows to stay away, because there are dangerous things in there but he hadn't understood at the time.

Like the apple. Darim has no idea what it does, but he knows his parents fight about it, and that it does bad stuff. And he remembers that on that day, he'd seen a little bit of what the apple was able to do- he'd gone into the room and watched it start glowing, shining and golden like a million stars somehow brought to Earth. He'd stood there, awestruck and staring, until the golden light started to form into the shape of a man.

The man stood with one arm outstretched, resting his hand on something Darim couldn't see. And then the light began to shrink, getting smaller and smaller until abruptly the screaming and the light both stopped with one final flash of even brighter light- and Darim had been alone in the room with a small, silent kid that he'd later learned was named Desmond.

Don't think about it, Darim reminds himself. Don't, don't, _don't_. Don't think about it, don't talk about it. Talking about it would make people think he's crazy. Thinking about it would convince Darim that they're right. Grown men don't suddenly appear in a flash of light and then turn into little kids. It just isn't possible.

Desmond flops down suddenly next to Darim, smiling up at him and panting from running. He throws one arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and Darim can't help staring at the burn scars that cover most of the limb. The doctors say it's as healed as it's ever going to be, but Desmond still can't move his fingers or hand much without pain.

Sef falls to the ground next to Desmond, panting as well. "Come on," he says. "You tired already?" He prods at Desmond's arm, and Desmond makes a face before rolling onto his side. Darim can recognize the signs, and knows to back off before his good day turns into a bad one.

"Come on, Sef," he says, getting to his feet. "Let Desmond rest if he wants."

"Okay," Sef says, and Darim spends the next few minutes playing with his brother, wrestling until Sef elbows him in the face and Darim pulls away until his eye stops stinging. He's still rubbing at his face when Sef suddenly frowns and points back to where they left Desmond.

"What?" Darim asks, and then he frowns too. A couple of young assassins- just barely finished with their training- are standing over Desmond, laughing. It's cruel laughter, and Darim is running back at them before he has a chance to realize what he's doing.

As Darim launches himself toward them, the bigger man gets frustrated at Desmond's continued silence. He shoves at the kid, and Desmond hits the ground, hard, without making any attempt to break his fall.

"Hey!" Darim shouts, and runs faster. He doesn't know exactly what his plan is, only that Desmond is his responsibility, and he can't stand here and watch them shove his brother around. "Stop it!"

The same man that shoved Desmond backhands Darim, hard, and he stumbles away, crying out in pain.

Sef yells something from behind him, but Darim doesn't listen. He runs at Desmond, just managing to get between him and another heavy blow. He feels his nose break as blood goes pouring down his face, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. Instead, Darim stares defiantly up at the man, silently daring him to try that again. The man sneers at him and raises a hand for another blow- Darim winces and tries to be brave.

Before the blow can fall, someone's hand closes around the man's arm. To Darim's great relief, the hand belongs to someone he knows- Malik is one of the few people Altair trusts absolutely, and he's been around their place a lot.

"Leave," Malik says, and neither man is stupid enough to risk his temper. They're both gone almost before the word is out of Malik's mouth, not quite running but definitely going fast. Darim watches them go with a smile.

"Are you alright?" Malik asks.

"My nose hurts," he says. "And they hit Desmond."

Malik frowns, crouching over Desmond to check him for injuries. The examination is thorough, but efficient, and in only a few moments he's gesturing for the brothers to follow him. "Come on," he says. Sef runs after the man, eyes wide, and Darim bends over Desmond to help him to his feet. Desmond lets his brother pull him to his feet, but doesn't move until Darim actually takes him by the hand to lead him after the other two.

Malik takes the brothers into his office, which is a walk of no more than two or three minutes. When the four of them are alone, Malik sends a novice running for Altair, then looks over at Darim. "What happened?" he asks.

"I only left for a minute," Darim says. "I looked back and they were with Desmond- who were they?"

"The kind of people that like to make trouble," Malik growls. "A pair of fools that should know better than to harass a child."

"Will they do it again?" Sef asks. His eyes are wide and scared.

Malik doesn't answer the question directly. "You need to be more careful," he says instead. "All of you." His gaze sweeps across Darim, who squirms slightly, over Sef, who looks like he might start crying, and onto Desmond, who still hasn't moved.

"Okay," Darim says. "I won't let it happen again." Soon he'll be old enough to start training, and then he can fight his own battles, and keep his brothers safe.

-/-

July 18, 1202 (Later)

-/-

There are a lot of pieces missing from Desmond's head. Memories, mostly. He knows there was a time before he came to Masyaf, when he was somewhere else, with other people, doing... something. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't remember it at all. A few faces, sometimes, if he closes his eyes and concentrates very hard.

The only part he's really certain about is that Altair had been there, and he's not even sure how he knows that. It's just a fact in his head, something he knows for sure, the same way he knows the sun rises in the morning and sets at night. That's why he feels safe at Masyaf, even with his memories gone, even with... everything else. Altair is family, and safety, and everything else good.

"Desmond?"

He looks up, startled, and manages half a smile when he sees Altair standing in the door. It's been several hours since he woke up in Malik's office, sore all over and with no idea what happened when he blanked out. After that, he and Darim and Sef had been led back to the family's rooms and forbidden from leaving for the rest of the day. Desmond can hear the other two in the kitchen, talking excitedly while Maria cooks.

Desmond is happy enough to stay curled up on the bed, though, trying to ignore the blackness crawling around the edges of his vision. It's been a bad day already. He doesn't need to black out again.

Altair crosses the room on silent feet and rests his hand on Desmond's head, and Desmond leans into the touch without really thinking. He tries to focus on the feeling of Altair's fingers, trying to stay grounded in the real world.

But it's already too late. He loses focus, just for a second, and the blackness comes swarming up to claim him, and he descends into nightmares. He can't see anything but the dark; muddy shadows in shades of black and gray, giant shapes towering over him, monsters and demons that whisper in dark languages he that terrify him down to his core. And always present, watching him with cruel golden eyes, the woman. Juno. Desmond doesn't remember her, not really, but he _knows_ her.

And he's terrified.

Even after more than two years of this, Desmond hasn't gotten used to the horror. Of watching the real world fall apart, and hearing the whispers crowd out the sounds of the real world. If he'd had a voice, he would have screamed. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out- it feels like a wad of cotton has been shoved in his mouth, like he's choking on all the words he wants to say but can't.

Strong arms wrap around Desmond, but he only fills them distantly, like he's feeling everything through layers of thick cloth. Probably it's Altair but there's no way to know for sure. It could be anyone in the world, and Desmond wouldn't know. He can't see, cant hear, he can barely feel- he's trapped in a prison of his own mind, and he's _terrified._

And then suddenly... he's not. He can't even explain to himself why, but suddenly Desmond isn't scared, he's angry. It's not fair, none of it. He's sick of the darkness, sick of the whispers, and sick of everyone treating him like he's going to break any second.

Desmond clenches one hand into a fist and glares at the shadows, silent and helpless but more angry than he's ever been. He doesn't want to be stuck with the shadows anymore, he wants to see the real world-

Something sparks painfully behind his eyes and Desmond reels back with a gasp, eyes screwed up tight. It doesn't help the pain any, and it only gets worse and worse, building up inside his head until it feels like it's going to fall apart.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stops, and Desmond opens his eyes to see a world of gray painted in shades of blue and red and gold. It's not the way he's used to seeing, but it's definitely the real world, not the dark one filled with shadows. Desmond stares around, mouth gaping open like an idiot, trying to figure out what he's seeing. Then it hits him- a few months ago, he'd heard Altair explain eagle vision to Darim. That must be what's happening now.

"Desmond?" Altair asks, and even if his voice sounds a little distant, even if Desmond can still hear the shadows whispers (but far off and distant now), he can still hear Altair.

He smiles and clings to Altair as tightly as he can. For a very long time he doesn't move, even when the whispers fade away and Desmond can switch from eagle vision to regular sight. Today is suddenly a very good day.

-/-

July 19, 1202

-/-

It's a little after midnight when Desmond finally falls into a deep, exhausted sleep. Altair leaves him curled up in bed and goes looking for Maria, feeling tired himself.

"Is he asleep?" Maria asks when he gets to their bedroom.

Altair nods, sitting on the bed next to her. "I think it's his eagle vision showing up for the first time. But since he can't tell me what he's seeing, I don't really know."

Maria frowns. "When Darim got his it wasn't that bad."

"Darim is… different from Desmond," Altair says. Darim, could at least explain what he was seeing, and Altair had been able to calm him down, to tell him that the pain would fade. With Desmond, he couldn't explain that in time it won't hurt so much. That touching won't hurt so much, and sounds won't be so loud. Altair can't do anything but hold him. It's incredibly frustrating, because Altair can't shake the feeling that it's his fault Desmond is like this. He shouldn't be small and terrified and lost in his own mind half the time.

"I've noticed," Maria says. "And I wondered…" she hesitates, the fingers of one hand absentmindedly twisting her hair. "Why do you feel so guilty about it?"

"I'm not," Altair says, but Maria clearly isn't buying it.

"I know you better than that," she says when Altair doesn't say anything else. "Whatever happened to him, it's not your fault."

"It is," Altair says. "Desmond is… the way he is… because of something I did. With the apple."

"Oh." Maria sits up in bed and takes Altair's hand. He squeezes it gratefully. "You never told me that."

"There's a lot I've never told you," Altair says, and before he can stop himself, he's telling Maria about his visits to the twenty first century. Both times. When he's done, Maria shakes her head and sighs, apparently too overwhelmed to do anything else.

"I wish you'd told me earlier," Maria says.

"You're angry," Altair says.

"I will be later," Maria says. "Right now I'm just tired. And worried."

"So am I," Altair says. "I just… I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would talk to anyone. How are we supposed to help him if he won't say anything? You know some of the younger assassins came after them today?"

"I'd heard," Maria says. "They didn't do anything, did they?"

"Not this time," Altair says. "But Darim and Sef- they would at least be able to run. When they get older, they'll be able to fight back. Desmond, though, he just- drops out of reality sometimes."

There's really nothing to say to that, and Maria doesn't even try. But she doesn't let go of Altair's hand until morning. It's a hot day, blisteringly hot, even in the early morning. That doesn't stop the boys though, and before long all three of them are running through the cramped rooms. Altair snags Sef as he runs by, setting him down at the table. "Sit," he says. "Eat."

"You too," Maria adds, pointing at Darim and Desmond. "It's far too early for that."

"What time is it okay to run?" Darim asks.

"Later," says Altair. "When you're outside."

The morning meal passes quickly, and the boys quickly disappear outside. Or at least, Sef and Desmond do. Darim hesitates though, glancing between Altair and the door. He opens and closes his mouth several times, and eventually Altair takes pity on him. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"What happened to Desmond?" Darim asks. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Altair says. "It was just his eagle vision showing up for the first time."

"I don't mean last night," Darim says. "I mean… you know. What's wrong with him? He's not like other people. He's not a kid, but he looks like one and he acts like one. And-"

"What are you talking about?" Altair asks. He's still tired and worried and Darim flinches at the sharp question.

"Nothing…"

"Darim, tell me."

The story comes falling out of Darim, how he saw Desmond turn from a man to a boy that day two and a half years ago. "I'm sorry," Darim finishes. "I should have told you, but I wasn't supposed to be in your office and I was scared…"

"Alright." Altair sighs. "Darim, I'm not mad. I wish you hadn't seen that, and I wish you'd told me earlier, but I don't want you to ever be scared to tell me anything."

"Okay," Darim mutters. "But- but what's wrong with him, dad?"

"It's very complicated," Altair sighs. "And you shouldn't have to worry about all this yet."

"I wanna know," Darim says. "I wanna help!"

"You can help by being there for Desmond when he needs you."

"Why would he need me?" Darim asks, and he won't look Altair in the eyes when he says it. "I'm not really his brother, am I?"

"No," Altair admits. If Darim had actually seen Desmond's arrival in Masyaf, there's no point lying about it now. "But that doesn't mean he's not family."

"But he's not," Darim says.

"Alright," Altair sighs. "Listen. One day, many years from now, either you or Sef will have a child."

"Ew."

"And then," Altair goes on, trying to hide his smile, "That child will have a child, and so on for a very long time. And then one day, many hundreds of years from now, one of those children will be Desmond."

Darim tilts his head sideways, eyes half closed as he struggles to follow this logic. For a second, Altair's not sure if he'll be able to, but then Darim nods. "So he's not my brother, but he's still family."

"Pretty much," Altair says.

"Okay." Darim smiles, then glances at his mother and lowers his voice. "Except can Sef have the baby? 'Cuz girls are gross."

"Careful there," Maria calls.

"One of you," Altair says again, loudly, "Will have a child. And that child will have a child, who will have a child, and so on for many hundreds of years, until one day, Desmond will be born."

"He's from the future," Darim says, considering this with some care. "Really? How do you know?"

"Because I've been there and i saw him," Altair says, oversimplifying hugely. "It's very complicated, Darim, and I don't think he remembers any of it. But he's been through some... bad times."

"Oh," Darim says. "Why is he here?"

"Because," Altair says. "He needs us."


	3. Chapter 3

October 3, 1207

Five years later

-/-

Desmond dashes around a corner and leans against a shadowed wall, panting for breath and desperately wishing he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. He closes his eyes and tries wishing himself away. Only of course it doesn't work, and a moment later footsteps come running toward him.

"There you are," Darim says. He sounds annoyed, and Desmond cringes. If Darim is missing training to come looking for him, then Desmond is really in trouble. "Are you seriously hiding?" Desmond shakes his head, which earns a snort from Darim. "Yes you are," he says. "Stop it."

Desmond shakes his head again, but this this time he's just frustrated. If he could talk, he would explain- but he still can't make the words come out when he needs them, and all he can manage is a stubborn look.

"I will drag you out of here if you don't come out on your own," Darim says, and Desmond frowns because he knows his brother, and Darim will follow through on his threat. Reluctantly, he steps out of the shadows and crosses his arms over his chest. Darim ignores the glare being directed at him, and actually smiles. "Come on," he says. "It can't be that bad."

Only it is, because today is supposed to be the day Desmond starts training with the other novices. And that's not going to happen, because the other kids his age are all awful. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that they don't like him- after all, Desmond knows he's weird. He can't talk, and he has to walk around using eagle vision half the time just to keep the shadows away. But Desmond's tired of being picked on and beat up, and the last thing he wants to do is put himself in a place where they can get at him any time.

"It's not that bad," Darim says. "I know it looks hard but you get used to it, and Sef's just starting, too-"

Desmond shakes his head, and Darim sighs, exasperated.

"That's not the problem?"

Desmond shakes his head again.

"I'm not just going to stand here and guess," Darim says, and Desmond suddenly perks up at the thought that Darim might just leave it alone, for once in his life, and Desmond can hide here instead of going to training.

That's not what happens, though. Instead, Darim leans against a nearby wall, clearly settling in for a long wait. "I'm going to stay right here until you tell me what the problem is," he says. Desmond gapes at him, mouth open, because they both know perfectly well that he _can't_ explain. He's been in Masyaf for almost eight years now, and he hasn't been able to say a single word yet. That's not going to change now just because Darim wants it to be different.

For a very long time, Desmond stands in stubborn silence, fuming at how stupid this all is. If he actually could explain all this to Darim, then he wouldn't _have_ a problem...

Unsurprisingly, Darim speaks up first. "You know," he says, "There's some bad stuff in your past. From before you came here."

Desmond looks at him and shrugs. He can't remember any of it, and he doesn't want to. He doesn't see what the past could possibly have to do with his present.

"And you haven't said a word since then," Darim continues. "So either your head is messed up somehow, or you're just being stubborn. I kind of think stubborn." Desmond shakes his head no, but Darim keeps going. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you. I think, if you really wanted to, you could say anything you want. I think-"

And suddenly, Desmond is angry. Really, really angry, and he pushes futilely against Darim. His brother just stands there, older and bigger and solid as a rock, refusing to move. "That's not going to work," he says.

But it's all he can do-

"You wanna try using your words?"

If he _could_, he _would-_

"Because I'm not really feeling it."

Something snaps and suddenly Desmond's on top of Darim, kicking and clawing and punching. He's not thinking straight. He's angry and helpless and frustrated. Frustrated most of all, because he's so tired of being stuck in his own head and not being able to say a word. He wants so, so badly to yell at Darim that there's nothing he can do, and he can feel himself choking on unspoken words until he can hardly breathe.

"Desmond!" Somebody yells, and it's not until he feels strong arms pulling him back that he realizes it's not Darim. He keeps struggling for several seconds, until finally he gets a glimpse of Altair, and manages to calm down. Slightly. "You okay?" Altair asks, and Desmond nods, still trying to breathe past the choking block in his throat. Next to him, Altair and Darim have a very short, quiet conversation that Desmond doesn't even bother listening to. Finally Altair nods at Darim, who frowns and runs off.

He looks up at Altair, then down at the ground. His face goes red with embarrassment, the earlier anger draining away from him like water from a creek bed during drought. It's stupid to be fighting like this but it's so hard to care anymore. He's tired of being cut off from everyone else, of being surrounded by people but never really one of them...

_"I think Darim might be right,"_ Altair says suddenly, in English. Desmond frowns at him, because he only has a vague familiarity with the language, but somehow... it just seems so familiar. _"I think maybe it's time you started talking."_

Right. Because it's that easy.

_"Desmond-" _he looks up in surprise at hearing his own name and winces as Altair grabs hold of his wrist, a little too tightly. _"I don't know what's going on in your head right now. But I know that you're suffering, and you deserve better than this. And I know that you're stronger than whatever's keeping you from speaking."_

Desmond shakes his head, tries to back away, but Altair doesn't let go of his arm, and his eyes don't leave Desmond's face. _"Can you just try?"_

Desmond stares back at Altair, confused and at a loss for what to do next. Then he opens his mouth.

_"It really hurts."_

The words fall out of his mouth without passing through his brain on the way, and for a second he's not even sure he's the one that said them. But then it all clicks in his mind, and Desmond takes a sharp, startled breath in as the world seems to shift in some almost invisible way, and suddenly he understands the words he's just said, and what Altair said before that.

Then he smiles, beaming up at Altair as he speaks for the first time. _"I can-" _the words are still an effort to force out, but it's just lack of practice. Something in his mind has shifted, some wall that's been in place since before Masyaf, and there's nothing that can keep the words in now. His voice is hoarse and barely audible and in a language he barely recognizes, but it's his voice and nobody else's. _"I can hear myself, Altair, I can- I never knew what I sound like before and-"_

Altair interrupts him with a hug that takes Desmond completely by surprise. He lets it happen though, mumbling into Altair's shoulder, babbling really, because he only half believes that this is permanent. Maybe, if he shuts up for half a second, he won't be able to make it happen again.

Finally, Altair draws back, still smiling but more serious now. _"What do you remember?" _he asks. _"Before Masyaf?"_

_"What?" _Desmond shakes his head. _"Nothing. Why-"_

_"No reason," _Altair says, but he sighs and pulls back a little, running a hand over his face. He looks almost... disappointed. _"I'll tell you when you're older."_

_"But-"_

_"What did you mean when you said it hurts?" _Altair asks.

_"When I try to talk," _Desmond says. _"Usually it's like… there's something trying to choke me. It hurts a lot. I don't know what happened this time, but-"_

_"This is your first language," _Altair says, and Desmond opens his mouth to ask why he doesn't remember learning it. Before he can, Altair goes on. _"I thought it might help."_

Desmond frowns, concentrating. "Why didn't you try this earlier?" he asks, and feels a vicious triumph when there's no pain past a slightly sore throat. Whatever's changed in his brain, it's not limited just to English.

"I didn't think of it," Altair admits. "I wish I had."

Desmond thinks about this. "Can I go say sorry to Darim?" he asks. The idea of actually being able to _say _sorry is amazing. "For punching him?"

"Later," Altair says. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere today?"

Training. His first day as a real, actual, novice. "Yes," Desmond says.

-/-

October 3, 1207 (Later)

-/-

No one is more surprised than Sef when Desmond shows up for training, late but apparently happy, even excited, to be there. He's done nothing but drag his feet about showing up today, and honestly Sef had expected him to spend the day hiding in some corner.

He's annoyed at being proved wrong. And at Desmond showing up at all.

It's not that he doesn't like Desmond. He's an okay guy. But he's also weird, and kind of a hassle, and he takes up too much of everyone's attention. And yea, when Sef's feeling sort of generous he can admit that Desmond needs more help than most people, but it still makes it really hard to have him as a little brother.

It would be better, maybe, if Darim agreed with him, but Darim is exactly what an oldest brother is supposed to be. He's always paying attention, always looking out for the first sign that something's going wrong in Desmond's messed up head. Only of course, that doesn't leave much time for Sef, and he really shouldn't be jealous but he is...

Nobody says anything about Desmond showing up over an hour late (even though Sef had been snapped at for getting there just five minutes after he was supposed to). A couple of the boys make jeering noises when their instructor isn't listening, but Desmond doesn't even seem to notice. Sef feels a little guilty when he laughs, but he does it anyway.

It's barely noon when the group of novices are dismissed for the day, but Sef's already exhausted and sore all over. Everything he's ever heard about life as a novice turns out to be true- it's harder than anything he's ever done before, and after only a few hours his arms and legs feel like they're about to fall off. He's excited, though. Ten years he's been waiting for this, and a little bit (or a lot) of pain isn't going to keep him from enjoying the moment.

Most of the boys leave together, talking and laughing as they stagger away from the training ring, trying to pretend the morning's exercises had been easy and they're less sore than everyone else. They don't go too far, though, and end up flopped in a small patch of shade not far from the training ring, too tired to do much more than talk.

There are only five of them total. Sef and Desmond, obviously, and three other boys that grew up in the keep or the village nearby. They're not bad guys, mostly. Usually, Sef even likes them, but today everyone's busy moaning and complaining over their first day of training, and it's starting to ruin his good mood. Then suddenly one of them- a big guy with fists about the size of Sef's head- looks over at Desmond.

"Why do you even have to be here?" he asks. "You're gonna slow us all down in training."

"Knock it off," Sef says, tiredly. He's tired because of the training he's just been through, and because this isn't the first time he's had to defend Desmond, and it absolutely won't be the last.

"Why should I?" the kid asks. "We're not going to be able to learn as much with him around." He stands up, paces over to where Desmond's sitting next to Sef, and kicks him a little. Not hard, just enough to be provoking. "He's going to get coddled by everyone 'cuz he's the mentor's kid and 'cuz he's a moron. Why should the rest of us have to suffer?" He pushes again, and Desmond frowns, opens his mouth, and then stops as Sef jumps to his defense.

"What are you doing?" he demands. "Seriously, what's the point of that?"

"Maybe I just need extra fighting practice," the boy sneers. "Since your stupid little brother is going to hold us all back in training-"

Sef is never quite sure how he ends up back in his own room with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, Desmond sitting morosely on the bed next to him. He bandages his hand, muttering complaints to himself the whole time. Occasionally he aims a few in Desmond's direction, too, because he's tired and frustrated and it's not like his brother's going to say anything about it anyway.

"But he was right," Sef finally says. "What are you even doing, going to training? It's not like you'll ever be a real assassin. Who ever heard of an assassin that can't even talk?"

He turns back to his hand, still complaining and knowing he'll regret it later. Getting angry at Desmond is like kicking a puppy- he never does anything to get even, just looks at Sef with big, sad eyes. Except this time, he doesn't.

"Malik only has one arm," he says, and Sef almost gets whiplash jerking his head up to stare at Desmond.

"What?"

"He only has one arm," Desmond says again. "But he's still a really good assassin, even though there's something wrong with him."

Sef sits there, gaping at Desmond with his mouth wide open. Finally, he asks- "Since when are you talking?"

"Um- since this morning," Desmond says.

"This morning," Sef repeats.

"Yea."

"Then why did you just let me fight for you?" Sef demands. His face is throbbing more painfully now. "You didn't have to just sit there and let him insult you so that I had to take a beating for you, again!"

Desmond doesn't answer for several seconds, maybe looking for the right words. "I think the other guy got more beat up than you did."

Sef snorts and turns his back on his brother. "Like that makes any difference," he says, and his nose throbs even more painfully. Stupid, waste of time fight for a dumb, lying little brother. He leaves the room without looking back once.


	4. Chapter 4

September 22, 1212

Five years later

-/-

Desmond and Sef are in Altair's office when everything finally comes to a head. They've been fighting on and off for years now, competing during training and at home, and bickering at every chance they get. It hasn't really been the same, ever since Desmond got his voice back, and sometimes Desmond wishes it could all go back to the way things used to be. When they were younger, and still friends. Mostly, though, he just wishes his brother would stop being such a stubborn, competitive _jerk_.

Neither of them is supposed to be in the office, technically, but they're fifteen and stupid and being forbidden something seems like a perfectly good reason to do it. The argument is nothing new- a familiar fight they've had a million times before, only quieter, just in case someone comes by and catches them.

Then Sef says something stupid, calls Desmond some name, and laughs at him. And Desmond throws the first punch. He'll remember that later, when it's too late to change anything, and too late to put things back the way they were. But if Desmond lashes out first, Sef doesn't hesitate to fight back, and in a few seconds they're trading blows without any thought of finesse or skill. It's just pure emotion, anger and frustration. They're both shouting, not caring any longer if they're found.

Maybe, if this fight had taken place somewhere else, it would have been good for them. It could have been enough to clear the air and maybe even get them talking again instead of arguing. Instead, Sef pushes Desmond back into the table where Altair keeps the apple, and the artifact goes flying. Time seems to slow as it falls, and then-

"Shit!"

The world goes black again, and even when Desmond switches to eagle vision he can't see anything around him. He breathes in sharply, tensing as the old familiar shadows with their terrifying whispers come crowding in around him. After several moments of pure panic, something finally happens. There's a flash of golden light, and the apple falls out of the murky darkness, landing in Desmond's outstretched hand. He stares at it, trying to understand how it came to be here- and then the shadow world around him seems to explode.

Desmond staggers back, one hand still clutching the apple, the other one thrown up uselessly against the light, and against the shadows as they suddenly swarm at him. They're coming at him from every direction, long dark fingers reaching for him. This is the moment he's been afraid of his whole life- when the shadows that have taunted him as long as he can remember get tired of waiting and actually attack. Desmond gasps again and screams, stumbling blindly away as the shapes jump at him, _into_him, into his mind.

And then abruptly he stops screaming, because it doesn't hurt. Because he's remembering. He just stands completely still, limp and panting, as twenty five years' worth of memories come pouring back in. He remembers. Everything. Even dying- or almost dying- and being saved by Altair at the last possible second. All this time, years and years of fighting off the shadows in his head, of being afraid of them, and they turn out to be nothing more than his own memories tormenting him (and Juno, of course, because she couldn't possibly leave him alone, even now).

But just as he's catching his breath and convincing himself that the worst he has to deal with are a few bad memories, the pain he'd expected earlier finally starts. The apple isn't done yet. Desmond's body starts to stretch, growing faster than humans were ever meant to. He can hear yelling, and some of it is his but some of it probably isn't, but Desmond doesn't have any brain space to spare on figuring out who's doing the yelling as his body accelerates from fifteen to twenty five in about five minutes flat.

Then- finally- the pain fades and the world returns to normal. Desmond finds himself on the floor of Altair's office, lying prone and naked on a pile of clothes far too small for him. He feels his fingers relax their death grip on the apple, and watches as it rolls away a few inches.

And then stop abruptly when it hits someone lying only a few inches away. Someone that looks a lot like Sef, if Sef had been an adult instead of a teenager. "Shit," Desmond hisses, barely audibly. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened. The apple brought him here, as a child with no memories, in the first place. Now the apple's brought him back to the way he used to be, and Sef was unlucky enough to be caught up in it.

"I am so, so sorry," Desmond says. It's a real effort to force the words out, because he's panting for breath.

"What just happened?" Sef demands. He sits up on shaking limbs, panting as well and also naked.

"It's... a long story," Desmond mutters, pulling himself into a sitting position as well, and taking care not to come too close to Sef.

"Tell me," Sef says. "I need to know." He looks at Desmond, and his eyes are... different. They're sad, and not the eyes of a child anymore.

So Desmond tells him everything. When he's done, Sef sits in absolute silence, studying his hands with a kind of detached interest that tells Desmond his mind is a million miles away. Finally, Desmond forces himself to break the silence. "How do you feel?" he asks. He's not sure if Sef is still the same as he was a few minutes ago, a teenager suddenly in an adult's body, or if the apple has somehow managed to even change his mind.

He has to ask it twice before Sef hears him, and answers. "Not like myself," he says.

"Who do you feel like, then?"

"Me," Sef mutters. Then he grins a little sheepishly. "And yea, I know that doesn't make sense. But I guess I feel like this is who I would have been in ten years, if… if that makes any sense. I just feel older, I guess. But there's also all this knowledge I shouldn't have yet, too. Like someone just sucked my brain out of the future and gave it to me early. Physically, mentally- I just feel older." He sounds older, too, more mature.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says again.

"It's not your fault," Sef says. "I mean, not too much. You did hit me first."

"Yea, and you knocked the apple over," Desmond says. For a second, the two of them tip right on the edge of descending back into another fight. Then they seem to come to the same conclusion at the same time- it's not worth the effort, and they have bigger problems for now. All their earlier arguments seem stupid and petty in the face of... whatever this is.

"So what do we do?" Sef asks.

"I don't know," Desmond says. He's still reeling from remembering that he's in the wrong time, the wrong part of the world, the wrong body, sort of. He can't deal with the future right now, not when he's still trying to sort out his past. Especially when most of his past technically is the future.

"We're going to have to tell dad," Sef says glumly.

"Oh." Desmond winces. Not because Altar won't understand- after his own misadventures with time travel, of course he'll understand. But he cares for his family, a lot, and learning that he's just missed out on ten years of Sef's life is going to absolutely crush him. "Yea- that's going to be fun. Do you know when Altair's getting back?"

"Sometime tomorrow," Sef says. "He's still out of town."

Desmond nods absently and doesn't say anything else. Neither does Sef, and the room falls gradually into silence. It's not an uncomfortable quiet, though. Even with everything that's gone wrong here today, there's still a few bright spots. Desmond's memories are not all nice, but they're his and at least he has them now. And after five years of fighting with Sef, the two of them are finally getting along again. Sort of, anyway, and the silence between them now is comfortable, rather than angry.

Brotherly, even.

-/-

September 23, 1212

-/-

Everything is a little too quiet when Altair finally gets home, tired and dusty from two long days on horseback. Maria he already knows is working with Malik in another part of the keep, catching up on the paperwork that's always starts to pile up while Altair travels. And it's early evening, so Darim is still probably at training, but Sef and Desmond should have been home.

He mumbles a curse, thinking without any real hope that maybe they're out somewhere doing something completely innocent. They won't be, of course. They'll be out somewhere, fighting and causing trouble as usual, but at least he can pretend for a little while.

Altair checks the boys' room first, but other than some dirtied robes thrown on the floor, there's no sign that they've even been there recently. There's no clue of them in his and Maria's room either, so Altair sighs and checks his office. He's told them a million times not to go in there, without effect. For some reason, all three of his kids seem to take it as a challenge, and spend as much time there as physically possible. Altair can't help grumbling to himself as he opens the door, because one of these days, something is going to go seriously wrong, and-

He stops short.

And that day is today.

"What happened?" he asks, and to his own surprise his voice is completely calm. He shouldn't be calm right now. He _really_should not be calm right now, because Sef and Desmond are sitting against the far wall, both totally naked, at least ten years older than they had been when Altair left Masyaf a week ago.

"The apple," Sef volunteers, after a very long pause.

"I sort of guessed that," Altair snaps. "I meant what were the two of you doing before that?" Only it's not that hard to guess, because they look like they've just been in a fight, and the apple is on the floor like it's just been knocked off his desk. "How many times have I told you-"

Words fail him as the enormity of what he's seeing here starts to process through Altair's mind. Desmond… he's probably going to be fine. If he remembers everything (and would he really be so calm if he didn't?), then what the apple did today is probably good for him. Sef, on the other hand, has just been forced to skip past ten years of his life. He's not getting anything back. He's losing something, something important.

"It's fine, dad," Sef says.

"This isn't fine."

"I _feel_ fine." Sef insists.

He doesn't look fine- he looks like a man that's just been in a fight, sitting naked on a stone floor. But he sounds fine, calm even, and Altair forces himself to step back a little, mentally, and look at the situation more logically. As if logic can be applied at all here.

"Alright," he says at last. "Here's what's going to happen. Both of you are going to get clothes, and then we are going to sit down and figure out where to go from here. And then… somehow, we are going to explain all this to Maria."

Neither Desmond nor Sef has any problem with putting on clothes, and fifteen minutes later the three of them are gathered back in the main room, sitting in a tense silence that Altair finally manages to break. "How are the two of you doing?"

Desmond answers first, and Altair isn't surprised to hear that the apple has brought his memories back. He also isn't surprised that Desmond seems a little awkward when he talks, even a little unsure how to act. After all, Altair's spent nearly thirteen years raising Desmond as a son, and before that (in the future) Desmond had helped to raise Altair. It had taken Altair years to get over the weirdness, and Desmond's only had a few hours.

It's still a problem for later, though, because at least Desmond seems relatively stable. Mostly he just seems resigned and a little annoyed, like this is a hassle instead of a major problem.

Then Sef has his turn to speak. "Alright," he says slowly. "So, this probably sounds weird, but I don't feel like I just missed ten years of my life. It's more like I had them all in one afternoon."

Altair considers this, studying Sef with an intensity that his son doesn't flinch away or back down from. Honestly, he can picture Sef growing into the man sitting across the table from him. If the circumstances had been right. If he'd outgrown his competitiveness, or learned not to let it control him. Altair would have been proud to see Sef grow up like this, if he had gotten to see him grow up at all. Instead he just feels a soul emptying sense of loss, one that he quickly tries to hide away.

"Well then," he says, doing his utmost to keep his voice calm. "We know where we stand. I'm going to go track down your mother and Darim. Maybe it will go over a little better if I explain before they see the two of you."


	5. Chapter 5

September 25, 1212

-/-

Darim squirms on the uncomfortable chair in his dad's office, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he's only ever been invited into the room before to hear bad news. And his dad looks really upset right now, so probably something's really wrong. Darim wracks his brain, trying to remember if he's done anything recently that could justify the grim mood in the room, and comes up blank.

"What happened?" he asks eventually, because even if the answer is terrible, it can't be anything worse than being forced to wait any longer. Besides, everyone was totally fine when he left. Things can't have fallen apart that fast.

His dad sits down next to him, looking at Darim very intently. "Do you remember," he says slowly. "When Sef was born, and we had that conversation about your responsibilities as an older brother?"

"Yea," Darim says. It's actually the first really clear memory he has, because he'd only been two years old at the time. "Why? Mom's not- she's not pregnant again, is she?" Not that it would really be a bad thing, but- well, it's been a while.

"No."

"Oh." Darim frowns and guesses again. "Then- is Sef alright?"

"That's complicated," his dad says.

"How can it be complicated?" Darim demands. "Either he's alright or he's not."

"I told you then that it's your job to protect Sef, because he's younger and smaller than you. And you've done a really excellent job with that, especially once Desmond came into the picture. But... things are going to have to change now. You're not exactly the oldest anymore."

Darim laughs. He can't really help himself, because he doesn't know how to react. "What?"

"There was an accident," his dad says. "With the apple. Sef and Desmond were here at the time, and they're both older now."

It should be impossible to believe, but Darim has no trouble. He keeps thinking of the day Desmond came to Masyaf, and of seeing him change from a grown man to a child. "How old?" he asks quietly.

"Twenty five."

"Wow." Darim is seventeen, and twenty five still seems an impossibly long way away. "That's- what am I supposed to do?"

"I'm not going to lie to you," his dad says. "This is not going to be easy for anyone. Things are going to have to change around here. I know you're used to protecting your brothers, because they were younger and they needed it. But the apple-"

"They don't need me anymore," Darim says quietly. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Not at all. I'm saying that they need you more than ever," his dad says. "Just in a different way. I need you to be calm. I need you not to distance yourself from them. I need you to be the one that keeps this family together because-" his mouth twists briefly into a humorless smile. "Sometimes I think you're the only one of us that's at all sane."

Darim nods, dazed but not sure what else to do or feel. "When do I get to see them?" he asks.

"A couple hours," his dad says. "I told your mother and Malik before you got back, and they're all talking it over now."

"Okay," Darim says. He doesn't even object to being the last one to find out, because he's only just gotten back home, and anyway it sounds like no one outside the family knows. Except Malik, and he pretty much counts as family anyway. "I can wait."

Apparently on cue, Darim hears an outer door open, and two voices talking quietly. Darim's out of his chair and halfway to the door when he thinks to look to his dad for permission. Maybe this isn't okay. Maybe it would be better to wait, and leave this for later. Or never.

"Go on," his dad says, and Darim pretty much bolts through the door.

His first impression is that two strangers have just walked in, and Darim finds himself lingering against the wall near the door, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. Instead of saying something, Darim just stands in silence and watches.

The closer he looks, the more points of familiarity he's able to pick out. Desmond is easy to identify- his arms at least are as distinctive as ever, one marked by ink and the other burned nearly to the shoulder. Sef, on the other hand, is recognizable less as himself and more as their father's son. Grown up like this, he really looks like their dad. There's a certain softness to his features though, probably from their mom, the two sides of his heritage coming together to give him a look that is distinctly his own.

Darim suddenly feels like he's falling, like the world is upside down and he has nothing to hold onto. His little brothers are older than he is now, and Darim suddenly realizes that's what his life is. It's protecting Sef and Desmond, from the world, from themselves, from each other. If they don't need him, who is he supposed to be? Darim glances over his shoulder, and shares a look with his dad. Neither of them says anything, but Darim feels a little better knowing he's not the only one that's lost a little bit of purpose today.

And it's worse because Desmond and Sef don't seem to care. They're not even arguing, they seem _happy_. Darim frowns and crosses his arms defensively before finally speaking up. "So how did mom take it?" he asks.

"Uh-" Sef winces, apparently only now noticing that Darim is in the room. "Well, she's pretty surprised."

Desmond snorts and mutters, "Understatement."

"Is she pissed?"

"She was at first," Desmond says. "But she calmed down. Sort of."

"Dad's not too mad either," Darim goes on. "So that part's probably my job, right?"

"If you're worried that no one's going to tell us how stupid we were, don't bother," Sef grumbles. "Malik's got that one covered."

"Good," Darim says. "He's better at it anyway."

They hesitate, and silence starts to fall awkwardly over the three of them. It would be very easy, Darim realizes, to just say nothing and let the silence stay. But if that happens, they won't be able to start talking next time without it being awkward, and the silence will be all there is. They won't talk, they won't be friends, they'll be brothers in nothing but name. And Darim _is_ angry at them, for fighting somewhere stupid, and growing up, and for leaving him. But when no one else speaks up, he bites down his anger and does it himself.

"So do you still have to go to training?" He asks, leaning back against the wall. "Because that would be pretty weird."

"Nope," Sef says, and grins at him. "Older means more experienced."

"Wow," Darim says. "Way to skip all the hard parts. Does that make you guys full assassins?" Overnight. And yesterday they were novices.

"It hasn't come up yet," Desmond says, shrugging.

"Oh." Darim frowns, thinking about more experience and hard parts and the stuff older guys do with girls. "So… have you… you know. With anyone?"

Desmond throws back his head and laughs, while Sef's face goes through a series of expressions that suggest he hasn't thought of this possibility yet. Behind him, Darim hears his dad make a choking noise from where he's apparently been listening in.

Darim laughs a little, and then Sef smiles- just like that, it's not the same as it was, but at least it's not silent anymore. It's something new. The way it has to be.

-/-

March 13, 1213

Six months later

-/-

Lately, since getting his memory and his old body back, Desmond's been struggling to figure out what and who he's supposed to be. He lived for twenty five years in the twenty first century, was born and lived and very nearly died there. But in Masyaf, a place he's only lived for thirteen years, he's sort of found a family. A messed up family, true, but from what everything he's seen- in New York, in Masyaf, even in the animus- pretty much everyone's family is messed up.

"Hey," Darim says, and Desmond realizes he's climbed up next to him without his hearing. "Why are you sitting on a roof in the middle of the night?"

"Just thinking," Desmond says. It's not the first time he's wandered up somewhere quiet to think, and it probably won't be the last. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," Darim says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. "It's your birthday."

"Right," Desmond says. "I forgot." He hasn't, but he doesn't want to talk about it, either. Unfortunately, Darim doesn't seem to get the hint.

"So, how old are you, actually?" he asks.

"Uh-" that's actually a good question. "Technically, I have a twenty five- sorry, twenty six- year old body. But I spent thirteen years here after living for twenty five years in the future, so that makes me thirty eight."

"So-"

"And then again," Desmond goes on. "I won't be born until 1987, so that makes me negative seven hundred and seventy four."

"Wow," says Darim. "Alright, I'll be honest, sometimes I'm really jealous that you and Sef got to skip most of the novice training and go straight to full assassin. But at least when people ask me how old I am I can just say seventeen."

It's meant to be a joke, but Desmond doesn't smile. Technically, it's not true that he and Sef are full assassins- Sef had been inducted a couple of weeks after the incident with the apple, as soon as it was clear that he's come through with all the training and skills he would have had if he'd aged normally. Desmond, on the other hand, hasn't decided yet if that's something he wants.

Darim's eyes dart down to Desmond's left hand, which still has all five fingers. The right hand, of course, is half crippled from that long ago burn at the temple in New York, and will never be able to work a hidden blade. "You never told me why," he says. "Dad says you're a very good assassin. He says you saved the world in the future, but technically you're still a novice."

Desmond sighs. "It's complicated."

"Why?" Darim asks.

"It…" Desmond hasn't actually told anyone his reasons yet, but for some reason he keeps going. "It's the hidden blade. This is the only period in history when you have to get your finger cut off to use it. I just feel like if I do that, I'm committing myself to this century. And I haven't decided that yet."

"So you're thinking about leaving?" Darim asks.

"This isn't my time," Desmond explains.

"Why not?" Darim asks. "You spent thirteen years here. You said it yourself."

"Yea," Desmond says. "And twenty five in the future."

"So what makes that century more important than this one?" Darim asks.

"I want to go back to New York," Desmond says, and realizes this is true only as he says it out loud. "I need to look at my life there, and then look at my life here, and figure out where I belong."

"Here," Darim says. His voice is equal parts stubborn and plaintive.

"Well." Desmond leans back and stares up at the stars, even though there are no answers there. "I'm glad you're sure."

"Did you tell dad any of this?" Darim asks.

"No," Desmond says. Then he frowns and stands up. "But I'm going to."

"What, now? It's the middle of the night."

"Which just means he'll be messing with the apple while Maria's asleep," Desmond says. "It's probably better for him to spend the night arguing with me than whatever he's using the apple for."

Darim makes a face and nods, standing as well and following Desmond off the roof. It's so obvious to everyone else that the apple is dangerous, but Altair cant seem to let it go."How would you do the time travel?" he asks.

Desmond shrugs. "The apple, maybe," he says. "It's precursor technology, and they're the only ones that know how time travel works."

"And suddenly I am very in favor of you going away for a while," Darim says. "Dad uses that thing way too much." Desmond nods, and stops outside Altair's office door.

"I'm going to ask him on my own," he says. "I'll tell you how it goes, though."

Darim shrugs and leaves without protest- he wants nothing to do with the apple, and he has no doubt that's what his dad will be occupied with at this time of night. Sure enough, when Desmond goes in and closes the door behind him, Altair is hunched over, cradling the apple on his lap, eyes focused on something in the distance only he can see.

-/-

March 13, 1213 (Moments later)

-/- **  
**

Desmond's lip curls in disgust almost involuntarily at the sight of the apple's too-familiar glow. For a second he just stands in the doorway, trying to steel himself before going in. Talking to Altair shouldn't be difficult- Desmond helped raise Altair. He's been in his memories, thanks to the animus. And Altair has been something of a father to him, too. They used to be close- but over the past few months, everything's just been awkward and weird. Since Desmond regained his memories, they've hardly even spoken.

"What do you see, when you look at the apple?" he finally asks, loudly. Altair jumps and for a second glares daggers at Desmond, clutching the apple closer to himself. Then he sighs, seeming to deflate as he drops the apple onto his desk. Still within easy reach, Desmond can't help noticing.

"Nothing," Altair says. "It's not exactly seeing. It's… something else. A kind of sixth sense, maybe. I don't know."

"It's not healthy, that's what it is," Desmond says.

"So everyone keeps telling me."

Desmond snorts and sits down across the desk from him. "Maybe you should try listening."

"What did you come in here for, Desmond?" Altair asks.

"I actually came to ask if I could borrow the apple," Desmond says. "I want to go back to New York for a while. And I need the apple for that."

"What?" Altair's eyes seem to flash as he glares daggers at Desmond. "You come in to tell me that the apple is dangerous, and then you say you want to take it for yourself?"

"I said you were using it too much," Desmond says quietly.

"I'm not."

"Only every day," Desmond says, completely failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "That's not much at all, really."

"It needs to be understood," Altair says. "It could do a lot of good, if we could only figure out how best to use it. And I'm close, I swear I am, I just need a little more time..."

Altair trails off, the anger fading as his whole body seems to slump. Desmond is reminded, not for the first time, that his ancestor is actually a very small man, shorter even than his wife. Normally he's so self possessed, it's difficult to remember. Desmond waits him out, not ready to say anything if Altair is just going to get angry again.

Finally, the man sighs, and offers Desmond a sheepish, apologetic smile that Desmond hasn't seen for years now. "I sound ridiculous, don't I?" he asks. "I'm not so far gone I can't hear myself, it's just..."

"It's an addiction," Desmond says quietly. "And it needs to stop."

He watches Altair tense, then force himself to relax. "Fine," he manages. "Fine, you can… take it for a while."

"Thanks," Desmond says. Then, because he has no plans of running to New York in the middle of the night, and because Altair looks like he might just go back to staring creepily at the apple the second he leaves, he changes the subject. Or tries to. He's barely managed to open his mouth when Altair interrupts.

"How are you dealing with the bleeding effect?" he asks. "Do you still have trouble with it?"

"No," Desmond says, which is sort of a lie. He hadn't had any problems with it at all before getting his memory back, and only a few scattered hallucinations since then. Nothing too bad, and since half of them are visions of Masyaf, where he actually is, it's sort of like he's not hallucinating at all. "Not since New York."

Altair fixes him with a look that has Desmond squirming involuntarily. "I believed you the first time you told me that," he says. "In New York. Because I was a kid and I really wanted to think everything would be alright. But I'm not a kid anymore, and I don't believe you."

"Fine," Desmond says. "I'm still sort of seeing things, but it's honestly getting better. I don't think I'll ever get over it completely, but I don't plan to slash my wrists open anytime soon. You?"

"It gets worse the more I use the apple," he admits. For a second they both stare at it, then Altair nudges at the golden sphere so that it rolls toward Desmond along the desk. "Take it," he says. "Take it far away."

-/-

October 31, 1213

Seven months later

-/-

It's nearly half a year before Desmond actually leaves for the twenty first century. He holds onto the apple for that whole time, keeping it locked away and hidden from Altair. For a couple weeks the master assassin stomps around like a drug addict on withdrawal, but over time he actually starts to recover.

Then after that, after he knows that Altair is going to probably make a full recovery from his overuse of the apple, Desmond keeps coming up with new excuses to delay leaving. It shouldn't be that hard to go, but Desmond has never been good with saying goodbyes, and after all, this place has been home to him for nearly fifteen years now.

Finally, Sef is the one that confronts him about it. "You need to get out of here," he says. "Everyone's just sort of in limbo, waiting to see if you leave or not. And if you're going to come back. So just go already."

"I've been trying," Desmond says. "But it turns out I suck at goodbyes."

Sef shrugs. "So don't say them."

"What?"

"Didn't you tell me once that you ran away from your parents when you were sixteen?" Sef asks. "Just do that again. Run off in the middle of the night."

"I can't-" Desmond stops and actually thinks about it before he can get the rest of the complaint out of his mouth. The truth is that skipping all the explaining and the goodbyes is extremely tempting right now. Besides, he hasn't decided yet if he's coming back. Maybe this is just going to be a see you later, and not a real goodbye. "I can't possibly ignore advice that good."

"About time," Sef says. "You should try not ignoring me more often, I swear I give good advice."

Desmond laughs. "Do you mind explaining where I've gone when people notice I'm missing?"

"Course not," says Sef. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yep," Desmond says. He feels suddenly cheerful, like an enormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "Before I change my mind."

"Then-" Sef pulls off the bag he's been carrying over his shoulder and digs around in it until he finds a package wrapped in brown cloth. "Dad was going to give this to you himself, but if you're leaving, he'd probably want you to have it before you go."

Desmond takes the package and unwraps the cloth, raising his eyebrows when he sees the hidden blade inside. It's not quite the same as the ones he's gotten used to seeing in Masyaf- the blade has been modified to work with five fingers instead of four. "Where did this come from?" he asks.

"Well, Darim mentioned to dad that you haven't become a full assassin because of some weird problem with not wanting your finger cut off. So he had this made."

"Wow," Desmond says, and even knowing that this kind of blade is common in the twenty first century, the fact that this one has been made specifically for him is something special. "Tell him thanks?"

"Sure," Sef says. They shake hands, and then Sef pulls Desmond into an awkward but heartfelt hug. It feels like an apology more than anything else, over the years of anger they've wasted on each other. "Just try and come back, alright?"

"No promises," Desmond says. He still has ties in the twenty first century that make it hard to walk away altogether, but right now the idea of abandoning Masyaf is even harder. "But yea. I'll try."

They pull away and Sef rubs at the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed. "So… I'll see you around," he says.

Desmond nods, and straps the hidden blade onto his forearm. It fits perfectly, like it's been made for him- which it has. Then he pulls out the apple from his own bag and watches Masyaf dissolve around him.


End file.
